


Reverence

by Mems



Category: Alien: Covenant, Prometheus (2012)
Genre: Implied Murder, Implied experimentation, Other, Post Prometheus, Xenomorphs, david would fuck an alien if he could, maybe next time, mentions of elizabeth shaw, mentions of engineers, nenomorphs, pre covenant, sadly he does not fuck the alien in this piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mems/pseuds/Mems
Summary: Idle hands are the Devil's workshop; David regards his newest creation.





	Reverence

**Author's Note:**

> I had the pleasure of writing this as a commission for a friend of mine over on Tumblr. I love the world of Alien, particularly the stories surrounding Prometheus and Alien: Covenant. David is the best (worst) android. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He’s searched for her for days now, wondering through the winding halls of the temple, checking around corners, stopping, waiting, hoping, at every stray sound. He’s ventured past the stone enclosure, even, trekking through bodies long dead as their phantom shells cling to each other, cling to the stone, cling to the life that is no longer there. He should have known better before even trying; she’s a predator, a hunter, after all. She’d have come to him eventually without his fervent search and seek, and so she does, finding him in the night among his scrolls and his vials of black death. Slinking deft into the candle-lit room while he’s distracted by his silent contemplations as hypothesis fills his head like daydreams.

He hears her when she lowers to the floor, an almost metallic clank of claw against the stone. He doesn’t frighten; he’s no instinct for something so silly. There was a tune on his lips he continues to hum as he looks over at her. It’s only in seeing her that he pauses. It’s only in realizing that she came to him does he stand. He walks to her, mesmerized; she’s quite larger than the others and oh… so…

_Perfect._

Her domed head tilts, this way, that way, curving an alien neck at a curious angle showing more and more curiosity—as though she were more feline babe than parasite born anew. Monstrous beauty she is, long and elegant in her limbs and thin in her skeletal frame, skin clinging to it _slick_ and pale-grey like the storm clouds constantly hanging over from above. Teeth that glisten show as she _clicks_ at him, a succinct tune nearly like a melody. _Click-click-click,_ the sound echoes through the temple stone, vibrates in the air and had he ever heard something so… so… wondrous before? He thinks not.  

He stares back at her, artificial eyes taking in beauty that only something born of evolutionary superiority could ever hope to possess. She is magnificent, the greatest result so far of his experimentation, and certainly the one truest to the form he seeks.

David opens his mouth, slow. He’s learned through trial and error that the Nenomorphs won’t attack him; he’s hardly food and far from a suitable vessel to carry on their legacy, _but._ They trust him in a purely instinctual way, if he’s patient. He’s all the time in the world, and he’s learned the right combination of sounds, the subtle necessity of constriction within his throat, when to dampen and when to heighten the noises to make those _clicks_ back at the beauty in front of him. She has no words, nothing like the simplistic human speech with which he was programmed. But he can respond to her, and she can respond back, with those pretty little clicks of her own and that tilted head and curious, eyeless stare.

Shaw never understood this. This _fascination._ She was always bitter about the creatures. The pathogen. The destruction. _Why?_ she would ask. Why were they created? Why were they sent to destroy her precious humanity? David had no answers for her. Why seemed irrelevant to him; what did it matter when there was perfection before them? A correction for a great, tragic stain upon the universe that Shaw’s coveted Engineers understood all too well, even if they themselves weren’t even strong enough to resist the pathogen’s wrath in the end. He often wondered why he kept her around for so long despite their obvious differences of opinion. He supposed his fascination with her mirrored a bit his fascination with them. And in the end, Shaw served a higher purpose.

He supposed only a human like _her_ could bring forth a creature like _this._

He reaches forward, and she backs up. He’s not food, not a host, he’s a foreign thing that makes no sense to her biological programming. But he’s slow with her, as he always is. He’s slow to step forward, slow in the reassuring little clicks that gives her, slow in touching her on her domed head, fingers splayed out on the slick that covers her still, still warm and viscous as he touches. She starts; such an interesting reaction, he notes, from a creature that would otherwise tear the flesh of humans from bone and revel in the blood.

“There, there.”

He was never coddled as a child would be. Weyland brought him into the world, a fabrication of a man with all his parts and pieces right where they needed to be to be considered complete. He was never a child, even if Weyland called him a son. Human affection was such a trivial thing, yet he finds himself willingly giving such affections to these creatures. It’s in the soft caress of that greyed flesh, as she keeps her head beneath his hand, pushes into it. It’s in the amused chuckle that leaves him as he tilts his own head at her, as he slides his hand along the curve of her head, down the front of her noseless snout, over dripping lips to curiously touch at strangely pearl teeth that don’t snap the intrusion.

“What a good girl.”

She gives him no childlike response, of course. She almost coos back at him, however, the clicking communication of her kind seeming softer, still, somehow. His lips curve, just so, his smile pleased and his eyes bright, and—does he feel _it?_ Elation? Is that what he’d call the strange, elevated interest that moves through him as she stands there for him, as she lets him touch her. He was never allowed the benefit of being seen as holding such emotion. He wasn’t _human,_ after all.

But he feels, something.

He stands there with her into the night. He takes in her every detail and it’s committed to memory, stored away as data until he commits it paper and stores it away as art with all the other scrolls he’s blackened with graphite to sketch out the wonderment that is those creatures and their versatile beauty. She watches him as he moves about humming the melody of music he can no longer play in full, and he _watches_ her.

Eventually, he gets back to his work. He talks idly about what he’s discovered about her, her kind. He speaks as if she could understand him, as if she would have a care about her tiny, tiny beginnings, as if it would matter to her about the woman that she came from. He does so, nevertheless, finding her more intriguing company than any human has ever attempted to be to him, as she clicks away and scales the walls, finally settling on the ceiling as he logs his notes for the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> You can catch me over on the Tumbles at [memswrites.](https://memswrites.tumblr.com/) If you liked this piece and would like to commission me, feel free to take a look at my most recent [commission page!](https://memswrites.tumblr.com/post/165436985663/post-irma-flash-commissions) All commission earnings go towards helping pick back up after hurricane Irma, and is very much appreciated. ^^


End file.
